, , , , , , ,

The Panic Attack Fairy

Again, her unpretty song beats a rhythm to match the gaping gorge at the core of my being. She’s leading the dance there, too. The lil’ biatch!

I’ve heard tell of the folk that, in the grip of this malaise, fully believe they are dying (right now as opposed to eventually), and so they call an ambulance. I really, really understand that one.

But see, I’m still standing. Not falling over, no slurred words or nausea. Just the sensation of my heart torn asunder with a crowbar wedged firmly down the middle.

Funny thing – I can still move about like anybody else, as if there’s nothing at all the matter! Peculiar and more peculiar.

Tried walking it out, working with my breathing, and consciously relaxing, but no, it’s not done yet. Not yet. Better today than last night, though.

Off the tram and walking the longer way home last night, I was crying over nothing. Stupid TV show with the sad music didn’t help matters either. Instamatic tears, just cue song.

I remember how it used to work – wrap it all in a gossamer ball and float in a fairy floss bubble so the bumps don’t hurt so bad. Rinse, repeat and then wait.

My problem right now is, can’t seem to find those Elvin weavers, my helpful Maestros of Magical Protection.

So I’m just left to deal with the Panic Attack Fairy all on my own! Luckily she’s a little vagabond and eventually passes through…

The good news though – she ain’t got the same shock and awe impact these days… mostly. But still, she leads the smackdown with enough force that, if I didn’t know any better, I might begin to wonder… and it’s almost like I’ve forgotten my previous defensive manoeuvres.

I dunno, I dunno!

So my question… is this just a spectre? An echo? Remnants of what has been, perhaps? Or, like when you fumigate and get most of the roaches, is some of my stuff lurking, packed between the floorboards? Lessened and dormant, biding time for an opportunity to multiply?

Sure, I’m stronger now and I can see the whole process more clearly. Generally speaking, of course.

But I think my stress-o-meter’s constantly on a hair-trigger now, and maybe that doesn’t help?

I mean she’s never in-your-face obvious. There’s sneakiness involved. And slithering seeping creepiness, slipping through closed doors, under pillows and behind eyelashes. Seeking, slinking, and it’s like I can sense the turbulence before she arrives.

Seems I have a kind of PA Fairy radar. A PAF radar? A PA Fradar? Who are you A Fradar? Haha…

Look that’s great and all, but still, there’s no seatbelt to fasten, no emergency bracing position. Just… do I have enough protection to cope?

As she takes little pieces, tiny sacrificial slices, just milligrams here and there, but with a vice-like grip that once connected keeps on tearing, til its time.